Worth Waiting For
by rahleeyah
Summary: Set post 8.1. Ruth is feeling a bit down about her birthday, until she discovers that a certain someone has left a present for her in her desk. Considering that gift sets Ruth's feet on the path to reconciliation with Harry at last.


Ruth didn't put much stock in birthdays, any more.

She used to, of course, added it to the long list of things she _used to do,_ she _used to be, used to care about_. Her life had been divided into a shocking sort of before and after, the two halves of her soul so wildly different that sometimes she feared they would not recognize one another. Birthdays belonged to the _before_ , to the part of her that had been hopeful and optimistic and full of wonder. She had bought presents for her friends, arranged drinks and dinners and constructed elaborate surprise parties when the moment called for it. They had even thrown a surprise party for Harry once. Before.

When it came to her own birthday she had likewise always been determined that it ought to be a special day. She'd have a fancy meal or buy a little something for herself that she might have otherwise found frivolous or too expensive. She'd go on a blind date or sing karaoke with her friends, do whatever she could to enjoy the day to the fullest, even on those occasions when she had to work.

And years ago, wearing the hopeful smile she had long since lost to memory, she had come to work on her birthday to find a present stashed away inside her desk. The first gift had been endearingly awkward, an overture made by a man who did not know her as well as he might have liked, but who took what knowledge he had and ran with it. She had not known, before, that Harry was the sort of man who thought chocolates made a perfect birthday present, who might learn that one of his employees adored her little moggies and take it upon himself to purchase for her a book on cats. That was something she knew about him now that she had not known, before.

The next year he had done significantly better, she recalled; Harry had somehow managed to lay an elaborate scavenger hunt all around the Grid, ending with a rare edition of Ovid tucked behind the water cooler. Ruth had discovered that book and her cheeks had flushed pink with pleasure, and she had spent the rest of the day glowing and smiling uncontrollably. Harry could be sweet, when he wanted to be. That was something she had not known about him, before.

And then they had been torn apart, and Ruth's whole world had been torn in two. Her family shattered and her dreams of a quiet life with it, and she was brought back into the swirling shadows of the Grid, no more than a remnant of who she had been, before. Things had been so rushed, upon her return to Thames House, that she had not spared a single moment to think of her birthday, of what it meant, what she might do for herself on that day. And when she dressed in the morning and made her way out of her little flat she realized that there was nothing in particular she wanted, nothing she could think of that would lift her spirits today. It was cold, for late April, windy and damp, and she had no friends to call upon. All her old friends thought her dead, and she had not taken the time to straighten out that misunderstanding. She would go to work, but she would not expect anything from Harry, Harry who had been so kind to her since her return but who surely did not still harbor the feelings he had almost confessed to her by the riverside years before. They were only just beginning, before, and Ruth had been lost in pain and self-recrimination, after, and she knew that she had spoken to him harshly, had pushed him away. He was a proud man, her Harry, and she couldn't imagine that he would risk his pride by approaching her again.

Ruth tried her best not to think of Harry too often, these days, tried not to spend too long pondering what he had meant to her, before, what he might come to mean to her, again. He had been kind to her in the wake of her return, had helped her find her feet, had once more come to rely upon her, to trust her with everything he had. Though Ruth valued that trust, though she was pleased to once more find herself engaged in work that challenged her, work that she could be proud of, she could not help but feel as if her life were just a little bit empty, now, without the promise she had so treasured in the days before her would-have-been love affair with Harry was cut short. There was precious little laughter, precious little love, precious little joy in her heart, now, and her fondness for birthdays had been stolen from her, smothered beneath the weight of her grief.

And so it was that she came walking onto the Grid that morning, dressed in her customary somber colors, utterly unremarkable, and started up her computer and fixed herself a cup of tea in the kitchenette before settling down to work while trying to push all thoughts of Harry and birthdays and romance and loss from her mind.

 _One day is much the same as any other,_ she thought, trying not to give into the sorrow that threatened to drown her should she consider too long how much her circumstances had changed in the months since her last birthday, should she consider too long how very little she had to treasure in her life these days. It would seem that this had become an occasion for lament, rather than for celebration, but Ruth did not want to allow herself to be so utterly consumed with grief. _Just get on with it,_ she told herself.

But then a small yellow note stuck to the bottom of her monitor caught her attention; there were a half a dozen little notes scattered across her desk, but Ruth could not remember this one, and as she looked at it now she realized that it had not been written in her hand.

 _Top drawer,_ was all it said.

Ruth's heart began to flutter in her chest as she looked at it. She recognized that thick black scrawl, the loop of the letters, the brevity of the tone. Harry had left this note for her.

Without a second thought she followed the instructions and opened the top drawer of her desk, and her breath caught in her throat as she stared inside.s Nestled amongst her spare pens and paper clips and office detritus was a small black box, and stuck to the top of that black box was another yellow note.

 _Happy Birthday, Ruth. -H_

A sudden rush of tears almost overwhelmed her; she covered her mouth with a hand and lifted her gaze at once to his office, but the blinds were pulled back and revealed the stark red of the back wall, and no one sitting in his high-backed chair. Somehow Harry had snuck onto the Grid and left this little gift for her and then snuck away again without anyone the wiser, and the thought that he had remembered, not just her birthday, but the quiet, unspoken tradition they had established between themselves years before left her heart feeling warmer than it had done since the day she left Cyprus. It didn't matter, really, what was in that box; what mattered to her was that Harry had thought of her, that he had extended his hand to her, had chosen without words to tell her that he remembered everything about her, about them, about the way things used to be, and that perhaps, with a little bit of effort, they could rediscover some of that warmth, that gentle, hopeful kindness.

With reverent hands Ruth lifted the little box from the drawer and tucked the notes in her purse before opening the box.

A single tear slipped past her, splashed down her cheek before she could stop it. There inside that box there lay a beautiful sparkling silver necklace, simple, understated, lovely, and the sight of it brought a terrible memory rushing back to her at once.

" _I kept this," Harry was saying as he stood in the safehouse that had been her home for the last month, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. It was exhausting, watching him so obviously ill at ease in her presence, having to school her features, having to stop herself from weeping, from screeching, from clawing at his face, from collapsing into his arms. Though Ruth knew in her head that it was not Harry's fault, that he had not done this to her, her heart had yet to catch up. She watched through narrowed eyes as he held out his hand to her, and from his fingers there dripped the charm necklace that had been her constant companion in the days before her exile. The sight of it was almost enough to make her weep, for she had taken it off, that day by the docks, and slipped into Harry's pocket, whispered "remember me, Harry," before she stepped away from him. And he had kept it all this time, damn him, and was standing here in front of her while her world was in ruins, reminding her of it._

" _I never gave up hope, you see," he told her as she reached out and took it from him. "I knew you'd come back to us one day."_

" _Thank you, Harry," she answered him earnestly, wishing that his sweet words did not wound her so. "I'm afraid it's not really my style, any more."_

And Harry, dear, sweet Harry, had heard those words and taken them to heart, and purchased a beautiful necklace in a more muted style to match the woman she had become. He had taken note of her, of the changes in her, and he had acted accordingly. With trembling hands Ruth drew the necklace out of the box, clutching it tight as she turned and fled for the ladies' room. As soon as she was certain that she was alone she fastened the necklace and stood for a moment with her fingertips pressed against it, watching it sparkle and shine against her pale skin.

For months now Ruth had been asking herself what was to become of her, what she wanted from Harry, where they would go from here. For months she had been lost, cast to sea with neither sail nor rudder to guide her, and now it would seem that Harry had thrown her a life raft of sorts. He had not ever purchased birthday presents for any of his other employees, she knew, and those gifts he had bestowed upon her were always kind, always thoughtful, and this one seemed to whisper to her _it isn't too late, Ruth. I'm here, still._ And for the first time since her return from Cyprus, that thought didn't frighten her. Time had dulled the ache in her chest, when she thought of what had become of George and NIco, and having established her role on the Grid once more she found that she did not mind, so very much, that people might talk about her and Harry. After all, no story they could fabricate would come close to the truth, and Ruth had long since learned that she had nothing to fear from whispered words. Why shouldn't she give into this, the longing in her heart, the warmth of his honey-brown eyes, why shouldn't she seize this chance for happiness in a life that had for so long now been dark and lonely? Harry was reaching out to her, and she could not bring herself to spurn him, not now, not after everything. He deserved better than that from her.

She liked the look of the necklace, and she liked the thought of wearing something that Harry had given to her, and as she made her way back to her desk, she realized she was smiling. With one small gift Harry had completely lifted her spirits, had given her cause to hope for the first time in a very long while. And yet, though she looked for him, he did not materialize, not that morning, not at all through the long day. He phoned Lucas, explained that he was tied up in meetings and ascertained that the Grid would carry on with him, but he did not put in an appearance, and Ruth couldn't help but wonder why, couldn't help but wonder if it was nerves that kept him away, if he had been so uncertain of how his gift might be received that he could not bear to watch as Ruth uncovered it. That simply wouldn't do; she wanted, very much, to tell him how much she treasured his gift, how beautiful it was, how thoughtful, how very much he meant to her, and she wanted, more than anything, to have that conversation with him in private.

And so it was that at the end of her working day Ruth made her way home, fed her little moggies and wolfed down a quick supper before turning right around and rushing out again, making her way across the city to Harry's house with a small, fragile flicker of hope burning bright in her chest.

* * *

When she arrived at his home she found it all in darkness, and at once she realized her folly. Harry had been busy all day long; why had she assumed he'd return to his home at a decent hour? More than likely he'd gone back to the Grid after Ruth's shift ended and worked his way through a mound of paperwork, relieved that she was not there to throw his gift back in his face. It was too late now, however; Ruth would not set off back across the city to join him on the Grid, was not willing to risk passing by him as he made his way home and thus losing this opportunity to speak with him away from prying eyes. She sat herself down upon his front steps, wrapped her arms around her knees, and resolved herself to wait for him.

* * *

Darkness had fallen, by the time Harry finally arrived home, weary and troubled. He had hoped that he would be able to spend the day on the Grid, that he might be granted the opportunity to watch surreptitiously as Ruth opened her present just as he had done in the past, but the HS had called him away and he had not had a single moment to himself all bloody day. Though he wanted very much to know how Ruth felt about the gift he was certain that was a conversation they ought to have in person, and so much as he longed to hear her voice he had not called her.

He had been trying, with all his might, to navigate this dance between them carefully, to treat her gently, to give her whatever she needed in order to be comfortable once more with his proximity, his concern, his affection. And though Ruth had been, as ever, reticent, hesitant, skittish as a deer, she had been slowly coming round. She smiled at him sometimes, now, even if it did not quite reach her eyes, even if there seemed to be a well of sadness in her too deep for him to stem its flood. Those smiles, the way she had once more taken her place at his right hand, the way she finished his sentences, the way she reached for him, sometimes, to offer him what comfort she could had bolstered his confidence, and so he had taken the plunge, had chosen to extend to her a gift whose significance he hoped that she understood. Yes, Ruth had changed, was no longer the girl she had been when he first fell for her, but truth be told he loved her more, now, than he ever could have imagined, and he needed her to know it, needed her to know that he thought her beautiful, still, worthy and desirable, no matter the changes she had undergone. It was the charm-necklace-Ruth who had first captured his attention, but it was this quieter, gentler, stronger Ruth who held him utterly enraptured.

As he pulled into the drive the motion-activated lights at the front of his house flared to life, and revealed a most unexpected sight. Sitting on his doorstep, skin pale as moonlight, wrapped in those clothes dark as a shadow, she seemed so small, so vulnerable, and he felt the sudden resurgence of a long-buried urge to protect her, to draw her into his arms, to hold her close and never let her go. At his arrival she looked up, and though the bright lights streaming out from the house and the darkness all around them combined to throw her face into shadow he could see, even from this distance, that she was smiling at him. A real, full-faced smile of the kind he had not witnessed in years, a smile that warmed him straight through.

He was out of the car as quickly as he could manage, and Ruth rose to meet him, unfolding herself from the steps in a gentle movement graceful as a dancer. As he approached her he caught sight of the silver strand of her necklace sparkling against her skin above the collar of her blouse and the knowledge that she had not only discovered his gift but taken it upon herself to wear it at once, to come to his house, to wait for him and offer him a smile brighter than the sun, left him all but giddy. She had not run from him, then, had not come to chide him or throw his generosity back in his face, and the hope her presence inspired him was so great, so overwhelming, that he began to smile himself.

"Ruth," he said softly as he came to a stop before her, longing to reach out to her and yet holding himself back, as he always did, all too aware of how many times he had pushed too hard and frightened her away in the past. She was beautiful, and real, and here, and he would not risk sending her fleeing from his side so soon.

"I...I wanted to say thank you, Harry," she told him softly, a crimson blush rising in her cheeks as they stood bathed in the glow of the lights from his house. "It's beautiful." As she spoke she lifted her hand, pressing her fingertips all unthinking against the line of the necklace Harry had given her and drawing his attention at once to the delicate slope of her neck. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to draw her into his arms, to press his lips against the furious beat of her pulse, to hold her close, to never let her go. Perhaps it would have been wiser to keep his distance, to allow her the space she had asked of him in the past, but she had come to him this night for a reason, and somehow he couldn't imagine that it was only to offer her thanks. She could have done that in the morning, could have slipped into his office before the briefing or left a note upon his desk, but she had chosen instead to come to his home and he felt that such bravery on her part ought to be rewarded with an equal show of confidence on his own.

And so he took one step, and then another, until he was close enough to catch a hint of the faint waft of her perfume on the chill spring air.

"You're very welcome, Ruth," he answered her, his voice suddenly low and gravelly even to his own ears. He wanted her, very much, with everything he had, and he could no longer even try to hide it.

Ruth smiled at him, a little wild around the eyes but not backing away from him, not now, not yet. For a moment they remained rooted to the spot, each of them wary, uncertain, all too aware of the wounds they had delivered one to the other over the years, all too aware of the importance of this moment, the need to get it exactly right, to treat one another with reverence. To his very great delight it was Ruth who determined their way forward, who took a deep breath and stepped from the precipice before he ruined things between them utterly.

With a trembling hand she reached out and cupped his face in her palm, her thumb brushing across the rise of his cheekbone as she shifted towards him, her eyes impossibly blue and deep as the ocean and certain as she came to her decision.

"Thank you, Harry," she whispered into the stillness between them. "Thank you for waiting for me."

And then, before he could speak a word, before he could so much as blink, she reached up and brushed her lips against his own once, softly.

It was all the incentive he needed. As she made to step back from him Harry took a deep breath of his own, caught her hip in one hand while the other tangled in her hair, drew her back to him for another kiss, a proper kiss this time, no fleeting caress but rather a kiss born of passion, the kiss he had longed to bestow upon her since that night he'd taken her out to dinner and walked her to her doorstep and yet restrained himself for the sake of her uncertain nature. Not so tonight; this seemed to him to be a pivotal moment, a turning point in their relationship, the cornerstone that would support the foundation of whatever they were to be together, and he would not, could not let this pass without making sure that she knew, that she could feel, just how very much he wanted her, how very much he loved her.

* * *

Ruth's head was spinning. She caught his lapels in her hands, clutched him close as with lips and tongue he overwhelmed her, overcame her. This was a kiss six years in the making, full of want, of need, of hope, and she was utterly swept away by it. Harry's hand clutched her hip, held her close against him, and his tongue was tracing the line of her lips; Ruth could not help the little gasp that escaped her, and the moment it did Harry seized upon his advantage, kissed her that much more ardently, delved into her mouth to taste her and the heat of his kiss, the fire of his touch, left her dizzy and desperate for more.

Though she had not allowed herself to think that far ahead Ruth had known when she'd come to him tonight that such an outcome was all but inevitable. Harry had offered her, not just a lovely present, but a chance to move forward, to lay aside the grievances and doubts that had plagued them and instead rekindle the romance that had only just begun to bloom between them in the days before Cotterdam. And knowing this, knowing that she had fought so hard to hold herself back from him, to be circumspect in her approach to him, Ruth had come to him anyway, because in truth there was nothing more she wanted than to accept what he was offering, to reach out with both hands and seize the one thing she had always wanted, the one thing she had always denied herself. It was her birthday, and Ruth was through with self-control and self-denial.

And so she gave herself over to Harry's kiss, pressing back against him, allowing her hips to nestle closer to his body, allowing her hands to snake around his neck, catching his plump bottom lip between her teeth the way she had longed to do since the day she met him and shivering, just a little, when the nip of her teeth sent a growl of want rumbling through Harry's chest. She threaded her fingers through the soft curls at the nape of his neck and kissed him with everything she had, delighted and enraptured and borne aloft on a wave of reckless hope.

But then Harry was pulling away, and Ruth let out a soft sound of distress, not yet ready to part from him, to give up on this beautiful gift she had only just begun to enjoy.

"Ruth," he breathed her name, his voice ragged and wrecked with want of her.

"Ask me to come inside, Harry," she told him, reaching up to kiss him again.

He didn't ask, at least not with words; he indulged her for a moment, allowed her tongue to dance alongside his own, but then he was moving, his arm wrapping around her waist, tucking her in close to his side as together they turned and made their way up the three short stairs to his front door. Keeping that arm slung tight around her he reached out with his free hand to unlock the door, and the next thing Ruth knew they were standing in his foyer, and Harry was locking the door behind them.

For a moment she felt the old nerves return; was she really doing this, really standing here in Harry's home late at night seriously considering mounting the stairs beside him? In the dim light between them she studied his face for a moment, the weathered lines at his eyes and mouth and brow, the hunger in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, and she felt a sort of calm come over her. Yes, she really was here, and yes, she was really considering going to bed with him, but for the first time in a long time that thought did not fill her with nerves or doubts. This was _Harry,_ Harry whom she had loved for years, Harry who had always been so kind to her, so thoughtful, Harry who had carried her through grief and calamity, Harry who had waited for her. There was no one in the world she loved so much as she loved Harry, no one she understood so well, who understood _her_ so well, and this was right, that they should spend this time together, that they should lay aside their grief and their guilt and celebrate the fact that after all this time they were still here, still mercifully alive, still wonderfully in love. They had been given a gift, she realized, a second chance to get it right, and she would not squander that.

Harry held his hand out to her and she accepted it wordlessly, ducking her head to hide her victoriuos expression as Harry turned and led the way up the stairs. Ruth had never been in his home before, and yet she was not nervous, was not overcome with the unfamiliarity of the place. This was Harry's home, and that thought alone was enough to comfort her. In silence they slipped up the stairs, quiet as a pair of shadows, though Ruth's heart was pounding so loudly she was almost certain that Harry could hear it. He had made his choice as well, had recognized what it was that she was offering him and accepted it gladly, and the fact that he was not willing to wait a single moment longer, to waste a second on courtesies like tea or a tour of the house told Ruth plainly that as eager as she was to hold him he was likewise overcome with want, and they would sate their hunger for one another first, before anything else.

He did not pause on the landing, just continued on, led her down the corridor to the last door, swinging it open and stepping through the threshold before turning to her at last. And in his eyes she saw all the wonder, all the hope, all the fervent desire that burned within her own heart.

"Ruth," he whispered her name reverent as a prayer.

"We've waited long enough," she answered him. As she spoke those words she once more slipped her arms around his neck, and he was with her in a moment, his lips descending on hers, his hands tracing down the slope of her back, and Ruth smiled as she kissed him.

It seemed that now that they had loosed the floodgates of their passion for one another, now that they had agreed not to wait another moment longer, Harry was more than ready to move them along. As he kissed her he guided her back, and they stumbled across his room together, their feet tangling, tongues wrangling, grappling with one another's clothes and unwilling to draw apart even for a second. Ruth let out a breathless laugh as they went tumbling back on the bed, but then one of Harry's strong, firm thighs slid between her legs and his palm ghosted over the swell of her breast and her laughter turned to a whimper in a moment. She could hardly breathe as Harry surrounded her utterly, his taste, his scent, the hardness of his body above her, all around her, drowning out any other thought. She bucked her hips against him, a shiver going through her at the friction created by his thigh pressed hard and fast against her center, his lips leaving her mouth to trail fire down the slope of her neck. Ruth cast her head back on the pillows, caught her fingers in his hair and let him have her, all of her, let him take what he wanted for she wanted nothing more than to give it to him.

His hands were ghosting beneath her blouse, now, his fingers trailing along her ribcage, pressing against the soft skin of her stomach, and with each brush of his fingertips against her skin her heart only seemed to pound louder, her eyes closing as the world seemed to tilt and whirl around her. How was it possible, she wondered, that they had managed to contain this desire for so long, that they had for so many year made do with no more than fleeting touches and longing looks? No longer, for now he was peeling her blouse from her body, and she was shucking off her bra, and his lips were rounding the curve of her breast while she sighed and melted in his arms.

* * *

He could not get enough of her, of the taste of her skin, of the soft sounds she made as they wound themselves together there in his bed. Her hands were tugging on his shirt buttons and he was kicking off his shoes even as he sucked one tender nipple into his mouth, the arch of her body in response sending the blood rushing to his cock in a moment. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined, somehow, and perhaps it was not that she was so very different from his imaginings but rather that now that she was finally here he could admit to himself that reality was better than any fantasy his mind could conjure. He never could have imagined the sound she made when he dragged his tongue along the shell of her ear, never could have imagined the taste of her skin or the heat of her as he slid his hand over her soft belly and underneath the elastic of her knickers, his fingers tangling in coarse curls damp with need of him.

His love of her had been a constant fact of life for years now, but he had always been somewhat less confident when it came to discerning the nature of her own feelings for him. Always running, always pulling away, never saying out right what it was she wanted from him. After her return he had been certain that she would never again consent to be near him, to share her time and her space with him, all his hopes shattered as she came back to him amidst blood and pain, never to be the same girl she had been when she left. Now, though, now he suspected that somewhere beneath those long black skirts and dark blouses his Ruth still lingered, still harbored those feelings as deep and true as his own, and if the way she was peeling his shirt from his shoulders, if the wetness that pooled between her legs at the touch of his hand was any indication, she wanted him, still.

Skirt and trousers and knickers and trunks; hands grasping and desperate little laughs escaping them they undressed one another, shifting and turning and rolling until Ruth came to a stop perched on his hips, staring down at him in blue-eyed wonder, her dark hair adorably mussed, her neat breasts calling his name, her heat pressed against his bare skin lighting him on fire with want of her. How could it be, he wondered, that they had made it this far, that they had come to this place of understanding, that she could finally be here, in his bed, in his arms, smiling at him as if not a single day had passed since their quiet dinner date?

He took a moment to enjoy the sight of her, to drag the palms of his hands from her hips up the curve of her sides around to her breasts, where he cradled her in his hand, watching as she shivered and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Ruth," he started to say, urgently, suddenly determined that they should not move one more inch until he'd had the chance to tell her, to speak those words she had silenced when she left him on the docks. Above him Ruth settled, his hardness brushing against her stomach as she looked down at him, his thumbs brushing absently against her nipples and watching as goosebumps began to erupt across her perfect skin. "Can I say it now?"

She smiled at him, softly, a little bit of the sadness that had so colored her expression in recent days sneaking into her eyes once more. "You can, Harry," she told him.

Beneath her he shifted, his arms wrapping around her, anchoring her to him as he sat up, her knees on either side of her hips, her eyes on a level with his own.

"I love you, Ruth," he told her.

"I love you, too, you know," she answered shyly, "always have done, really. God knows I tried, but I could never forget you, Harry. I love you."

For a moment, just an instant, he wondered why she had fought it for so long, wondered why she had found it so very difficult to just accept the love they felt for one another and be grateful for it, wondered why she had so suddenly seemed to change her tune, but only for a moment, for as soon as she finished speaking Ruth leaned towards him, kissed him gently even as she reached between them and wrapped one delicate hand around his hardness.

He groaned against her lips, and she smiled, and redoubled her efforts, kissed him harder, stroked him more purposefully. If he had not already felt her wet and wanting, if he had not felt her grinding herself against him, if he did not want her so badly he thought he might die if he did not have her in the next five minutes, he might have waited, might have rolled her beneath him, might have taken his time with her. As it was Ruth was making it all too plain what she wanted from him and the throbbing want in his own body would not be denied a moment longer. He once more caught her hips in his hands, guiding her as she rose above him, as he settled himself beneath her, as she dragged the tip of his hardness along her folds and drew a mewling sound of want from the pair of them.

Everything about this moment was brilliant, perfect, glorious, almost unbearable in its beauty. The swell of her breasts, the pebbled peaks of her nipples, the way his hips bucked in time to her ministrations as if of their own accord, the hint of her heat so close to him he could have wept for want of her; he closed his eyes for a moment, committing every piece of this image to memory.

"Harry?" she asked him breathlessly.

" _God,_ yes," he answered her, and she was moving in a moment, rising above him, hesitating just for an instant as she positioned herself above him. He clutched her hips tighter, fingers holding onto her flesh for dear life, willing himself not to move, to let her set the pace for this, their first time together. He wanted to give her everything, every piece of himself, the entire world if she asked it of him, but more than that he wanted her to be happy, delirious with him, and so he held himself back, waited for her to take what it was she wanted.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she lowered herself down onto him, and at the first taste of her heat swirling around him his head slammed back against the pillows, his fingers curling into her flesh hard enough to bruise. She gasped, tensing and then relaxing against him, slowly working him deeper and deeper inside her, and the steady stream of whimpers and sighs that left her lips had him aching with want of her. Around him she was hot and wet and soft and perfect, and he could feel her stretching to accommodate his not inconsiderable length, could feel her trembling above him, just as overwhelmed as he.

" _Christ,_ Ruth," he groaned, and in response she only whimpered, rocking against him, her hands dropping to his chest to hold her in place as they slowly began to move together. It was paradise, it was bliss, it was heaven on earth, the way she held him, the way he filled her, the way they consumed one another. With every downward thrust of her hips he watched her breasts swaying softly, tantalizingly, felt the rush of wetness between them where they were joined, the sounds of their union and their gentle gasps floating on the air all around them. An urgent sort of need overcame him and he used the hands still holding her hips to guide her, to encourage her movements, his own body rising up to meet her on every downward thrust, pressing into her harder, and faster, until her legs began to shake and he took over for her. Harry held her tight against him and let his own need take him over, plunging into her again and again until she quite suddenly lowered herself against him, the change in angle between them drawing a strangled moan from each of them. Ruth's lips fastened hard to the line of his neck to muffle the sounds of her crying out for him, and he wrapped one arm around her back, holding her tight to him as he plunged into her again and again. The drag of his cock against the soft walls of her sex, the friction that built between them as she ground down messily against him, the brush of her hardened nipples against the coarse hair of his chest, the delirious pain of her lips and teeth pressed hard to his neck was almost more than he could bear. Furiously he moved, chasing after his pleasure, desperate to bring her with him.

It happened in an instant; everything was building, swirling, towering need, and then she released his neck to groan out the words _yes, Harry, yes, please, oh please,_ and the sound of her begging for him had him redoubling his efforts in a moment until her fluttering sex clenched him so tightly his eyes began to water, and her lips fastened to the curve of his shoulder to muffle her scream as she shattered in his arms. Her release was his undoing; he caught her bum in his hands and drew her down hard against him, driving into her like a man possessed until at last he reached his own completion, spilling into her while she shivered and whimpered in his arms.

* * *

"Well," Ruth hummed, lying with her body still sprawled across him, her fingertips drawing nonsense patterns against his chest, "I have to say, Harry, as far as birthdays go, this was a good one."

He laughed, his hands splayed across her back, holding her close. "Let me catch my breath," he told her, "and then I'll make sure it's a _very_ good one." He punctuated his promise with a gentle kiss pressed against her shoulder.

Ruth laughed, her own breaths unsteady as she recovered from their furious love making, as she tried to process the fact that she was lying naked on top of an equally naked Harry and that he had told her he loved her, that she had confessed the same. And even as the thought occurred to her she felt Harry reach out, felt his fingertips tracing the line of her silver necklace.

"All this for a necklace, Ruth?" he asked her softly, and in his question she heard all the uncertainty that their last few years had bestowed upon him, all the doubts that she herself had sewn in him.

"It's not just a necklace, Harry," she told him, feathering kisses along the line of his jaw because she could, because it was there, because she liked the taste of his skin. "You never gave up on me, even when you had every right to. You waited for me, and you kept trying to tell me that you were there for me. I'm just sorry it took me so long to come around."

"None of that now," he told her in a gruff tone of voice, using his distinct size advantage to turn them easily, to roll her beneath him and smile down at her. "We're here, and I love you, and that's all that matters." Before Ruth could respond his lips were trailing down the center of her chest, over the soft curve of her belly, heading for the apex of her thighs, and so she held her tongue. She sighed in bliss, tangled her hands in his hair, and watched him as he set about making sure that this would be a birthday she would never forget.


End file.
